


crosses all over (heavy on your shoulders)

by Windybird



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Angst and Humor, Excessive Drinking, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Multi, Other, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windybird/pseuds/Windybird
Summary: “Why do you talk like that?”Connor blinked owlishly. “Like what?”“Like you’re one of the robots from those old vintage cartoon shows, back in the early 2000s. Can’t you talk like a normal kid?”“What does a normal kid sound like, Hank?”Hank sighed through his nose, a long, deep sigh that Connor categorized as an expression of his exasperation of banal questions. That, and staring at Connor for too long, muttering under his breath, and being unresponsive when the CyberLife sales associates try to ask him personal inquiries.“Normal kids don’t know what the word amenable means,” Hank said.(Or, in which Hank adopts an android and, surprise surprise, nobody knows what to do about it).





	1. Chapter 1

_Designation_ : Connor.

_Model Number_ : RK800.

_Objective_ : Become the model son.

_Target_ : Located standing in threshold of front door to residency. Target’s heart rate increasing.

Connor switched off his scans just as Hank opened the door, muttering angrily at the door knob as though it had the capability to respond back to his threat of utter annihilation should it humiliate him as such ever again. Connor refrained from informing Hank that CyberLife had unfortunately only bestowed artificial intelligence upon androids and not inanimate objects at that period in time, much like he refrained from telling Hank that he was going ten miles above the speed limit after he’d retrieved Connor from the CyberLife store half an hour before, and from pointing out the weeds that were growing rapidly on his front lawn.

Connor refrained from doing all this because he was CyberLife’s most monumental advancement in child android development yet. Released to the general public only several months before, the Connor model was capable of skill development, housework, schoolwork- and, of course, being a comfort to those who could not, for some reason, conceive their own biological child, or those who wanted to brush up on their parental skills until that day should come. If an owner of the Connor model wished, they could deactivate his more unnecessary ‘human’ needs- such as eating, sleeping, or drinking- and essentially mold him into their ideal child, unfussy and self-dependent. It was a source of pride for Connor that out of the two hundred and forty seven child android models that CyberLife had introduced, the Connor model was by far the most popular.

It seemed, though, that Hank didn’t quite understand Connor’s marketability or potential when he had picked him out at the store. Though the sales associate had tried to inform Hank about the various benefits of a Connor model, as compared to, say, a more outdated Lucille or Charlie model, Hank had responded by interrupting the sales associate mid-sentence and telling him to get a model ready for pick-up as soon as possible.

Now that Hank was standing in front of him, Connor didn’t know quite what to make of him. He was of a somewhat taller than normal stature for a typical  American male- 6”4 and a half-, though he was around 10.5 pounds underweight, as Connor’s scans informed him. He was fifty four years old, sported a grizzled beard and a longer than fashionable haircut, and was staring down at Connor expectantly. Connor blinked before he realized that Hank was waiting for him to step inside, so he gave him a bright smile and walked through the door.

Instantly, he was bombarded by a huge blur of brown-and-white fur. A Saint Bernard- three years and four quarters old, his scans informed him- was now in the process of avidly licking Connor’s hand. When Connor hesitantly lifted his hand to pet the dog, he saw Hank’s lips quirk upwards, the first smile Connor had seen since Connor had been activated.

“What’s his name, Dad?” Connor asked. Hank cringed, the smile fading off his face.

“His name’s Sumo. And, uh, let’s lay off the ‘dad’ stuff until later, okay?” He said, in a tone that suggested to Connor he was attempting to be gentle. Unbothered, Connor smiled and nodded in response. As a child android model, it was automatic for him to address his owner as some form of parental title, as pertaining to their gender, but he could turn it off easily enough.

As he bent down on the floor to rub Sumo’s belly, he could feel the weight of Hank’s eyes on his back. Hank’s perspiration levels had increased substantially since the initial trip to the CyberLife store and back, and Connor could now smell the sweat that was gathering underneath Hank’s heavy jacket. He frowned to himself. While most child android owners exhibited some apprehension or nervousness following a recent purchase, he didn’t expect Hank- hard-boiled, self-assured Hank- to seem so tense and skittish around him. He’d gawked at Connor nearly the entire ride back to his house.

“Is there something wrong, Hank?” Connor asked carefully, continuing to pet Sumo’s belly. He heard Hank start a little behind him, as if he didn’t realize that Connor had known he’d been staring.

“Nothing, nothing- it’s just…” Hank hesitated. “You look so human, that’s all.”

“I’m-“ Connor stopped himself from finishing the rest of his sentence, that he was a machine, not human. Somehow, he didn’t think that Hank would appreciate it. “I’m whatever you want me to be, Hank. A son, a little brother, someone to play football with in the backyard… I’m here for your needs.”

He flashed a bright smile up at Hank, who rubbed the back of his neck in a subconscious display of nervousness. _Note to self_ : limit allusions to CyberLife or otherwise non-human components of body to Hank until further analysis of personality.

“That’s a nice sentiment,” Hank muttered, walking over to the kitchen and opening the fridge. He fished around for a bottle of beer, before pausing suddenly and turning to Connor with a question in his eyes. “Are you hungry? Do you even get hungry?”

“If you like, I can provide you with a copy of the owner’s manual for my particular model,” Connor said pleasantly. “It will inform you that while I have the capability of eating and sleeping, I do not need them to function.”

Hank stared at him, long and hard. “Fuck it. I’ll make you something to eat.”

Connor stood up from the ground, brushed the dust off his knees, and walked over to stand beside Hank, who was peering into the contents of his pantry. A quick scan informed Connor that there were five cans of baked beans inside, two of which had expired as of March, and three dead flies.

“Would you like me to go food shopping in the morning, Hank?” Connor asked. Hank jumped a little beside him, like he didn’t hear Connor come to stand beside him.

“Uh, no, that’s okay- I can do it myself. Do you like baked beans?”

Connor considered the question. “I’ve never eaten anything before, so I do not have the proper culinary experience to provide you with a proper answer.”

“Christ,” Hank muttered, letting the pantry door slam shut. “I’m not letting your first meal be a can of beans I bought last year. We’ll just have to go shopping tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay, Hank,” Connor agreed cheerfully. “In the meantime, I think it would be agreeable to learn things about each other- if you’re amenable, of course.”

“Learn things about each other?” Hank repeated, a distasteful look on his face. “Can’t you just scan me and learn all there is to know about me in a few seconds?”

Connor gazed at him for a few seconds. “A scan would only tell me your biological components, not your personality. For example, your blood pressure is more than 140 over 90, which is higher than average. Your cholesterol levels, as well, are exceedingly high, and you have broken your wrist no less than three times. However, this does not inform me about the various aspects of your character. The best way for me to complete my objective would be to learn as much about you as possible, so I can, in turn, attune myself according to your wants and needs.”

Hank leaned against the countertop, cracking open the cap of his beer on the side before bringing the bottle to his lips. Connor tracked the movements of his throat, bobbing in huge gulps- _alcoholic, prone to binge drinking most nights-_ before he settled the bottle beside him and looked down at Connor with a sardonic smile on his lips.

“Ask away.”

“Judging from your home décor, you seem to have a fondness for jazz music,” Connor said, rocking back and forth on his heels as he analyzed the contents of the adjoining living room, something he didn’t think would be very polite to do until he had been more properly acquainted with Hank. Scanning the house now, he found a wide assortment of jazz records sitting on the floor beside a vintage record player, as well as a framed picture of a jazz singer above the mantelpiece. He also noted the clippings of Red Ice cases tucked between various pictures on the coffee table beside the television. “What other kinds of music do you enjoy, Hank?”

“Knights of the Black Death,” Hank said, deadpan. A quick search in Connor’s databases indicated that Hank was referring to a heavy metal band. He played one of the songs aloud, out of curiosity, but cut short when Hank yelped, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Jesus, Connor! Are you some sort of portable music device? Why do you even have that _programmed_ in you?”

Connor waited patiently for Hank’s heart rate to go down before he responded. “For the parent’s benefit, of course. You know, I like that music. It has so much… energy.”

Hank gave him a skeptical look. “ _You_ like heavy death metal? You look like you’re eight years old. Wait, wait, wait- how old are you, anyways?”

“I’ve been designed to resemble a nine-year-old boy, though my construction occurred around one year ago. So, if you want to go into technicalities, I am one year, four months, seventeen days, and twenty two seconds old. Now it’s twenty three seconds.”

Hank slapped a palm to his forehead, closing his eyes. “Oh, God. Okay. Fine. This is fine. Is it my turn to ask you a question now?”

Connor spread his hands placatingly. “Ask away.”

“Why do you talk like that?”

Connor blinked owlishly. “Like what?”

“Like you’re one of the robots from those old vintage cartoon shows, back in the early 2000s. Can’t you talk like a normal kid?”

“What does a normal kid sound like, Hank?”

Hank sighed through his nose, a long, deep sigh that Connor categorized as an expression of his exasperation of banal questions. That, and staring at Connor for too long, muttering under his breath, and being unresponsive when the CyberLife sales associates try to ask him personal inquiries.

“Normal kids don’t know what the word amenable means,” Hank said, and Connor nodded in understanding.

“I see. Would you like me to delete the word from my database?”

_“No,_ Connor! I just mean that normal kids aren’t as… nerdy,” Hank finished lamely. “Sorry.”

“No offense taken, as I am not a normal child.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” Hank said, though there was no heat in his words. “I think it’s your turn now.”

“If you dislike androids so much, why did you decide to buy a child android for your personal use?” Connor asked, tilting his head slightly.

“ _And_ we’re done for the night,” Hank grumbled, taking a huge swig of his beer before gesturing towards the living room hallway. “Let’s get you to bed so you can stop asking me all these questions. Do you think every android’s as nosy as you?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

Hank said nothing, only set his beer down on the table before walking down the hallway, tilting his head at Connor to follow him. Connor obeyed hurriedly, walking past several doors on either side of the hallways before reaching the one at the end. Inside was a pre-pubescent boy’s bedroom, covered in old, fading soccer posters and peeling rocket-patterned wallpaper. There was a large, mottled spot above the twin bed, where Connor assumed once hung an old photo.

“Sorry about the mess,” Hank said gruffly. “You can decorate it however you want, as long as you run it by me first. And I don’t want any weird techno experiments happening in here, got it?”

“Not to worry, Hank,” Connor chirped, looking around. “All the ‘weird techno experiments’ usually happens inside my head.”

 “Thank God for that,” Hank muttered to himself. “Okay, kid. Don’t stay up too late. ‘Night.”

“Goodnight,” Connor said pleasantly, as Hank shut the door behind him. Connor wandered through the room, idly scanning its contents. Dead skin cells on the windowsill. A single human hair on the bedspread. A child had obviously used this room before Connor- Hank’s son, most likely, though where he was now and why he wasn’t using this room anymore, Connor wasn’t sure. Seeing as though Hank didn’t mention any other family he might’ve had when he and Connor were getting acquainted, Connor assumed it was probably a sore subject for him.

Finally, seeing no other reason to stay cognitive any longer, he lied down on the bed, on top of the covers, and stared up at the ceiling. It was smattered with tiny glow-in-the-dark stars, glowing dimly in the relative dark of the room. He extended one arm towards the fake stars, squinting one eye and blocking them out with his thumb, before dropping his hand to his side, frowning slightly. This- being Hank’s son, his ward, whatever it is he chose to call Connor- was going to be a challenge, but Connor could appreciate challenges. He only hoped that he could prepare accordingly for whatever Hank planned to throw his way.

_Sleep mode: activated._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no excuse for the late chapter lmao sorry y'all

“Connor? You awake?” 

Connor’s eyes opened. Standing in the threshold of his room was Hank, looking uncharacteristically tentative as he tugged down the lapels of his coat. The alarm clock sitting on the nightstand next to Connor’s bed informed him that it was only seven in the morning, but the warm light streaming in through the shutters of the window indicated that the clock was several hours off. 

“It’s late,” Connor noted in surprise, sitting up in his bed. “You could’ve woken me up earlier, Hank. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Ah, well,” Hank said, rubbing the back of his neck in a skittish gesture. Connor had to make an effort to tamper down his frown. He understood the fact that having a new child was nerve-wracking, but Hank’s nervous gesticulations and speech patterns around him made him feel less like a child and more like a walking bomb. “You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you until I had to. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you a question about that. Do you even get tired, or cold, or hungry? I know that you said that you can eat food or sleep, but you never said whether you wanted to.”

“Whatever you want, I want,” Connor said, smiling sunnily. For some reason, this made the quizzical frown on Hank’s face become more pronounced. After a slightly awkward silence- at least, awkward on Hank’s part, who wouldn’t stop shifting his weight from one leg to the other at his position in Connor’s doorway-, he spoke again.

“Anyway, I came to wake you up because we still need to get groceries. Plus, I wanted to get you a few more clothes to replace that CyberLife outfit- I mean, that tie cannot be comfortable for a kid.”   
“You don’t have to do that,” Connor said, but felt oddly touched nonetheless. Most likely a slight malfunction with his processors. “I don’t perspire, so there’s not much for you to wash in the way of laundry. After all, I’m designed to be-“

“Extremely self-sufficient, I know,” Hank said, with a little eye-roll. “I got the sales pitch from that employee at the shop.”

“And besides,” Connor continued, rising from the bed, “there’s already clothing in the closet over there.” 

Hank tensed, eyebrows furrowing together as his eyes darted from the closed closet door and back to Connor’s face. When Connor raised his eyebrows at him, he cleared his throat with more than a little discomfort. 

“That clothing’s old, Connor,” Hank said, in a slow, deliberate tone. “You don’t want to be wearing those, trust me. We’ll get you something better, okay?”

“If you say so,” Connor said in a neutral voice, anxious to see the frown wiped off Hank’s face. In the short time span that they’d known each other, Hank had made a facial expression indicating displeasure or distaste 13.2 times, and he wasn’t entirely sure if that was Connor’s fault or Hank’s natural disposition, which, as Connor was beginning to learn, was aligned towards being easily disgruntled when things didn’t go the way he’d expected. 

The car ride to the grocery store was relatively quiet, but as they walked down the aisles of the store, Connor attempted to engage in friendly small talk once more.

“What do you do for a living, Hank?” He asked as they maneuvered their way past a man attempting to wrest his small children away from the boxes of sugary cereal that lined the shelves. Giving the man a sympathetic look behind his shoulder, Hank didn’t hear him the first time, and so Connor patiently repeated himself once more. 

“Uh, I’m a detective, kid,” Hank said slowly. “A lieutenant. Don’t you know this already?”

“Do you enjoy your work?” Connor asked, ignoring his question. “I think I would’ve liked being a detective, actually.” 

Hank snorted. “I can just imagine the look on Reed’s face when he sees you at a desk.” 

“Reed?”

“This asshole I work with,” Hank said by way of explanation, and then looked momentarily guilty. “Shit. Wait, no, not shit-“

“You can swear in front of me, Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” Connor said, modulating his voice to come across as teasing- and doing a good job of it, if the additional eye roll Hank sent his way had anything to say about it. “Though I am young and impressionable, I promise not to pick up on your coarse language.” 

“Very funny, smart-ass,” Hank said, but his voice lacked any heat, which Connor took as a minor victory. “But let’s just wait and see if you’re going to be laughing when the first thing you ever taste is Gerber’s baby food.” 

Luckily, Hank decided to forgo the baby food and bought several boxes of pasta, a large bag shredded parmesan cheese, premade tomato sauce, and several cloves of garlic- topping it all off with vanilla ice cream and a can of whipped cream.

“We’re going to be eating all this?” Connor asked, eyes round as they peered inside the mountain of food dangerously wobbling inside the cart. “But it’s only 11:30 in the morning.” 

“What are you, the cops?” Hank asked (rather ironically in Connor’s opinion, seeing as though he’d just admitted to being a detective, but Connor refrained from mentioning so). “If a man wants to be able to eat pasta in the morning, then he should be able to eat pasta in the morning. And breakfast food is for suckers, anyways.”

Note to self: breakfast food is for suckers. 

As they were wheeling the cart back to the car, Hank suggested they go visit the department store next to the grocery so they could “trash Connor’s CyberLife suit once and for all,” but Connor pointed out that the ice cream was bound to melt in the car as they were shopping.

Hank dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand.

“It’s cold as hell, Connor,” Hank said, by way of explanation. Only then did Connor realize that they’d been making the trek back to the car in the snow, which had begun falling while the cashier was bagging up their purchases back at the store. “Aren’t you cold?”

Connor shook his head mutely. “The factory settings turn that feature off automatically, but I could switch it back on at any time, if you’d like.”

Hank stared at him for a few beats before shaking his head. 

“Jesus,” he muttered as they finally reached the car. “Why would they even give you that option, anyway?”

“Pure authenticity,” Connor responded brightly, and began to load the groceries in the trunk with an expert manner, done with his task in a matter of seconds. “They want us to resemble human children as closely as possible, you see.” 

Hank let out a short, abrupt laugh. “Do they? Well, they missed the mark by a mile. No offense, kid.” 

“None taken,” Connor said easily, reaching up to close the trunk of the car before Hank interceded and did it for him. “I’m well-aware that I’m not like most human children, but I see that as an intriguing challenge. I’m meant to adapt to the wants and needs of my guardian far more efficiently than human children cannot.”

“How?” Hank asked, but there was no rancor in his voice, only curiosity. 

“Did you know I have a twelve-step program to sobriety implemented in my memory?” Connor asked, and then surprised himself by having to physically bite the inside of his cheek to avoid smiling when Hank groaned in exasperation.

“You’re worse than my ex-wife,” He said, and with that they began to trudge back to the lines of stores across the parking lot, where the department store greeted them with bright neon colors advertising 50% off on all select items. 

“You were married?” Connor asked, after Hank had successfully warded off the friendly employee at the door. Hank winced as they navigated their way to the children’s section of the store, though that might’ve just been because of all the ironic T-shirts that greeted them along the way. 

But then he said, “Let’s drop my marriage for now, okay?” in a voice that implied more bitterness than seeing a cartoon sun wearing sunglasses would warrant, and Connor decided it would be a wiser course of action to drop the subject than insist upon it. 

Though Connor didn’t particularly have any preference towards the clothing Hank offered for him to try on, he did enjoy the feeling of a soft green parka against his skin, with brown faux fur at the hood that, while being advertised as “100% real fur,” his processors picked up as polymeric fibers with traces of polyester. 

Hank gave him a scrutinizing look when he put it on, before grabbing a floppy black beanie off the nearby wrack and shoving it onto his head with a decisive nod. 

“There,” he said in satisfaction, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. “Now you look like a real boy.”

“Is that a reference?”

“Grab those blue jeans off the counter and we’ll be good to go,” Hank said, ignoring Connor’s question. “We’ll make a third grader out of you yet.”

“Fourth grader, technically,” Connor said, but by that point Hank was gently shoving him towards the check-out lane, and he was too preoccupied with the warm way that Hank’s hand lingered on his shoulder to debate the appropriate age range of elementary school-aged children any longer.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well? What do you think?”

“Hank, I’m not sure why you’re signing me up for school to begin with. It’s completely unnecessary. I have the mental processes of a super computer; I don’t need to learn fractions with a class.”

Hank sighed loudly, dismissively tossing the brochure down on the kitchen table. They’d visited the elementary school only a few hours before, but it had been so generic, so squat and gray, that even Connor, with his flawless memory, had trouble recollecting much of it that _wasn’t_ on the brochure.

“Well, Connor,” Hank said, leaning back in the chair, “it’s either this or you stay at home all day, doing nothing at all while I’m working.”

Connor frowned. “But you go to work for an average of 4.5 hours before coming back home, anyway.”

Hank laughed dryly, taking a swig of the beer sitting on the table that Connor had pointedly frowned at when he brought it out, to which Hank pointedly frowned back at him. He hadn’t been kidding about the twelve-step program ingrained within his memory storage- many child androids came equipped with sobriety programs to help potentially alcoholic parents, and RK800 in particular had one that was especially highly praised for its efficiency. When Connor relayed this information to Hank, however, he didn’t seem much impressed.

 “You got me,” Hank said, hands up as if in surrender. “Still, I’d like to have some peace of mind while I’m at work. I don’t want to come back home and find that you’ve burned the house down.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hank,” Connor said, clasping his hands politely in his lap. “The likelihood that I would burn the house down is 0.001 percent, down to a margin.”

“Don’t you want to make friends?” Hank asked, eyeing Connor’s face.

“You’re my friend, aren’t you?” Connor asked. Hank went silent for a moment at that.

“Friends your own age, then,” he amended, and though Connor’s face remained impassive, he secretly thrilled at the fact that Hank hadn’t refuted his claim over their budding friendship, as Connor thought he might’ve. Even as they’d slowly- _very_ slowly- gotten to know each other over the last seven days, Hank still seemed formidably unapproachable. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t trying, though; he was just out of touch with the youth, Connor thought, or, more accurately, the child androids.

“I never really thought about it,” Connor admitted, when he realized Hank was waiting for a response. “Technically, I’ve only been conscious for the past week, three days, and thirteen hours. I haven’t talked to anyone but you that entire time.”

Hank’s eyebrows rose, gradually receding almost to the top of his hairline.

“Wait, wait, wait. Are you trying to tell me that you’re afraid of the other kids?”

“I’m not afraid!” Connor protested, and then made a considerable effort to lower his voice. “I can assure you, Hank, I’m not afraid of them. I’m just… unaccustomed to them. I haven’t even seen another child before, much less interacted with one.”

“That’s why this’ll be a good opportunity for you to get some social skills up in that big brain of yours,” Hank said firmly. Softening his voice, he added, “And besides, Connor. I’m sure they’re all going to love having someone who has 3,000 bedtime stories uploaded in his memory.”

“If you say so, Hank.”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, the children, in fact, did _not_ love having someone who has 3,000 bedtime stories uploaded to his memory come into their school.

Though the teachers all seemed to be very pleased with his learning capabilities, the other children took offense to what they called his “brown-nosing”- which Connor found vaguely ridiculous; after all, his nose was white, or oftentimes pink, depending if his hot/cold sensors were turned on, but it never turned any other shade.

He actually found it a considerable achievement that he was the subject of frequent beatings from his fellow classmates after only three days in school. The main instigator of this was a deeply unfriendly boy named Gavin Jr., presumably named after his father, though when Connor had attempted to politely ask about this in the middle of his beat-down, Gavin had sneered at him.

“What’s it to _you?”_ He asked, “It’s bad enough your fake dad is _my_ dad’s coworker- I don’t want to have to deal with your dumb face around here, too, and get all your dumb Anderson germs all over the place.”

“How can I have Hank’s germs if, as you said, he’s not my ‘real’ dad?” Connor inquired politely, to which Gavin responded with a hard smack in the face. The other children ‘ooh-ed’ and gathered around them, but only one of them- one of the only four android children in the school, including Connor- actually brought a teacher to intervene.

She did so, which Connor was thankful for, but then she called both their guardians in, which Connor was less thankful. The look on Hank’s face when he burst into the principal’s office and saw the thirium dripping down the left side of Connor’s face caused an odd sensation in Connor’s stomach, almost as though the arbitrary nutrients from the pizza he’d consumed and disintegrated at lunch had not been disintegrated at all, but congealed into a pit in the depths of his stomach.

“Jesus, Connor!” He exclaimed, his hands settling on Connor’s shoulders as he kneeled down to check for any more injuries. A short scan told Connor that Hank’s heart was beating irregularly fast- as was Gavin’s father’s, Gavin senior, though he maintained his distance from his son, unlike Hank, who still kept on hand on Connor’s shoulder even as he got up to face Ms. Stern.

“What happened?” He demanded, shooting a baleful look at Gavin Sr., who was shooting him one right back from across the room.

“It seems your sons got into a scruffle out on the school yard because Gavin here states that he was looking at him ‘funny,’” Ms. Stern said, her tone dripping with disapproval.

And though it was pleasant to hear himself being referred to as Hank’s son, Connor felt compelled to correct her. “Actually, Ms. Stern, I’m not Hank’s real son. In fact, according to Gavin- Gavin junior, not Gavin senior, though it’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Reed-, Hank’s my fake dad, and so by definition I am his ‘fake son.’ May I ask how a son can be fake, so I can update my database for future searches of the term ‘fake son?’”

“Connor…” Hank said, with a little exasperated sound punctuating the end of his unfinished sentence. Gavin Junior nodded his head vigorously, though, as this confirmed all that he needed to hear.

“See what I mean?” He asked his dad, who had an unappealing grimace on his face. “He’s a total freak! No real kid sounds like that.”

Connor watched impassively as Hank opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, Ms. Stern interjected.

“Mr. Reed,” She said forcefully, punctuating every word with a tap of one manicured finger on her desk, “you know this school has a zero-tolerance policy for bullying, especially when it comes to androids.”

Connor frowned, cocked his head. Hank _had_ said he’d come to this school specifically because it was android-friendly, but he’d been woefully underwhelmed by this supposed aspect of Green Borough Elementary since he’d arrived. Still, now that he was at a close proximity, Ms. Stern looked vaguely familiar. A detailed scan and a cross-reference of his databases told him exactly why that was so.

“I didn’t realize it before,” he said under his breath, disbelieving at his past shortsightedness. Louder, he said, “You’re an android, aren’t you? And not just any android- you’re Amanda Stern, designed specifically by Elijah Kamski and based on his professor as a college student. You’re one of the most highly advanced androids there is- why are you an elementary school principal?”

Both Gavins blanched during this little expository speech.

“You’re an _android?”_ Gavin Senior asked, boggling at her. “But- but your LED, it’s-“

“Gone, I know,” Ms. Stern said, with a little eye roll. “Yes, I know. And very astute, Connor. Even the android children took longer than that to guess my true nature, though that might just be because I’ve been cooped up in this office for so long. To answer your question, I am an elementary school teacher because Elijah has repurposed me to be one. He thought I was getting too… ambitious.”

“And were you?” Hank asked, after a pregnant pause. Ms. Stern gave him a slight smile.

“That’s beside the point. Anyway, I’m content to serve as the principal of Green Boroughs Elementary School, as I have been for the past fifteen years. What I am extremely displeased with, however, is the fact that the school’s apparently been allowing anti-android sentiments to be perpetuated across the grades. Please be reassured, Mr. Anderson, that this unfortunate event will _not_ happen again, unless young Mr. Reed would like to face a week of after-school detention.”

“That’s not fair!” Gavin Junior shouted. Darting away from his father’s outstretched hand, he looked at Connor furiously and said, “Do you know that he interrupted Mrs. Dahl this morning in the middle of English because he wanted to ask her if she’d ever heard of the ship of- the ship of Beezus-“

“The Ship of Theseus,” Connor corrected, happy to get back to familiar waters. “It’s this fascinating thought experiment, in which the hero from the Greek myths, Theseus, had a ship which is now, for obvious reasons, in a state of decay. As it decays, it’s replaced by newer planks and boards, until there is not a single material left of the original ship. So, my question was, is it still the same ship? And, if for some reason, they happen to construct a new ship out of the original materials of Theseus’s ship that had been discarded, which ship is the original ship that Theseus and his crew sailed in?”

“He made Mack Rosenburg _cry,_ ” Gavin Junior said.

“Connor, you shouldn’t interrupt English class for an off-topic question about the metaphysics of identity,” Ms. Stern chided. “Still, though, that isn’t as egregious as your behavior has been these past few days, Mr. Reed. I’m going to suggest that both of you take the day off, cool yourselves down, and when you come back to school tomorrow, hopefully you’ll have collected yourselves enough to display appropriate behavior for school-time activities. Is that amenable with you, Mr. Reed, Mr. Anderson?”

“Yes, Amanda,” Hank and Gavin Senior chorused in sullen voices, then glared at each other as they realized they’d spoken in unison. Before they left, Connor couldn’t help but look back at Ms. Stern, who met his gaze with a neutral expression on her face.

“Would you mind telling me who was the android who brought in the teacher to stop the fight?” He asked her, in a quiet voice.

Without changing her expression, she said, “Markus.” Connor made a quick mental note to thank this Markus as he hurriedly followed Hank down the hall and out of the school, trudging back to the car in silence.

Hank persisted in his silence as they clambered inside and buckled up. The odd and decisively unpleasant feeling in Connor’s stomach worsened as Hank pulled out of the parking lot and down the road.

Finally, not sure if he’d be able to keep quiet any longer, Connor asked in a small voice, “Are you angry with me, Hank?”

Hank gave him a startled look, and nearly crashed into the car ahead of him as he did so.

“Woah!” He yelped, slamming on the brakes. Taking in a shuddery breath, he eased the car to the side of the road and slumped in his seat suddenly, his forehead almost touching the steering wheel.

“Hank?” Connor asked, feeling his thirium pump heart skip a beat in his chest as he looked at Hank’s bent frame.

“Did it hurt, Connor?” He asked him, in a gravelly, sandpapery voice. “When he beat you up. Did it hurt?”

Mutely, Connor shook his head. Then realizing Hank wasn’t looking at him, his head still resting against the steering wheel, he said, “My sensitivity function isn’t very high right now. If you’d like, I could turn it up for you- you really should read the owner’s manual, Hank-“

“Don’t, Con,” Hank bit out through obviously clenched teeth. “Don’t turn it up. Why do they even give you the option to do that? Do they want you to suffer?”

“I think it’s for the benefit of the parents,” Connor said carefully. “So they can feel positively about themselves when they fix up their child’s scraped knee, or bruised arm, or wherever it is they get hurt.”

Hank laughed humorlessly.

“No parent should ever feel positively about seeing their kid in pain,” he said, his voice low. Connor watched as he hunched in on himself during the car ride home, realizing with a start only as they pulled up into the driveway that Hank had called him “Con.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I mention how much I LIVE for ur guys's comments??

**Author's Note:**

> askjdklsj here's the self-indulgent hank-adopts-connor fic I've been intermediately working on and forgetting for the past month


End file.
